The small black cat with white whiskers
always wants to go out into the night
even in daunting cold, like this.
Last night I said yes. It was the first night
of a full moon that fell (if we're being exact)
this morning. (Or, I suppose, rose.) Anyway
we went together into my tiny garden, where,
over the roof, in the east, the moon appears.
I cast circle. I made ritual. I spoke prayers.
My cat patrolled the fences, examined extremities,
then sat at the circle’s edge and watched
with calm interest. She came back inside
when I called her name. I thought she might not.
I thought she might want to stay out there
in the friendly dark, talking to plants and the moon.
But she came, with her usual wariness, bravely
over the dangerous lintel (maybe two centimetres
high from the ground) because I called. I was proud.
Tonight I went elsewhere. This was the second
night of full moon (after the morning moonrise
in between). I celebrated with my sisters –
who danced and sang, honoured the earth,
prayed, meditated, and laughed together.
The moon, at that point, was large and golden.
Then I came home to the small black cat
with the white whiskers. She scampered about
in joy to see me, and begged to go out the back.
So we went again to look at the moon
together, witch and cat. It was high and bright,
smaller and whiter than earlier, in clear, cool air.
My cat – who is named Selene, for the moon –
stalked the perimeters, listened intently
for any suspicious sounds, then came again
to stay near, as I said a few words of thanks
to the earth and the moon, and the garden.
At last I made a small calling noise. We came in.
I poured red wine. I broke off two pieces
of dark chocolate. Selene ate cat biscuits,
which she likes. She skittered, and tossed her toys.
Then she came and stretched out at my feet,
playing with the leg of the chair. She looked up
into my face. And I looked back at her.
